


0 - 400

by pennyofthewild



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: (hurrah for background pairings), Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Brief Violence, Car Accidents, F/F, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one ridiculously long fic in which Satsuki is a street racer and Riko the mechanic she bullies into modifying her car.</p><blockquote>
  <p>[“Yep,” Satsuki gives Riko a side-ways smile, “and if you show up to the race on Friday, you can come watch me kick his ass.”]</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	0 - 400

**Author's Note:**

  * For [masi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masi/gifts), [symphonyine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/symphonyine/gifts).



> **Long Disclaimer:** This fic was inspired by: Wangan Midnight, the Fast  & Furious and the NFS games, and was written with the help of various internet articles. The numerous gaps in the author’s knowledge have been filled using artistic liberty, especially in the case of vehicle classification and specifications. The situations – and many details – herewith described are entirely fictional. Please note that discretion is advised in the driving and modification of motor vehicles. In no way is this piece of fiction intended to be a guide to the correct way to gut your car. 
> 
> **Short Disclaimer:** I know nothing. About anything.
>
>> (a huge thank you to [**[meguri_aite]**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/pseuds/meguri_aite) for so patiently helping me turn this monster into something readable (and putting up with my ridiculous flailing), I wouldn't have finished it without your help and encouragement. Thank you. <3) 
>> 
>> [**[click here to listen to a playlist]**](http://8tracks.com/pennyofthewild/zero-to-four-hundred) of the songs I listened to while writing this
> 
> **edit:** please note that "Ryou" is Kise's in-text nickname, and does not refer to Sakurai Ryou, which is probably something I should've thought about earlier, I think 

**0 – 400  
_a novella_**

 

**Prologue: July**

A typical mid-July morning in Tokyo: hot, thick with summer humidity, and loud, permeated with the sound of people and the roar of car engines, the combined smells of sweat and gasoline heavy in the air. In spite of the heat – and more importantly, the humidity, which is, of course, a Tokyo-feature year-round but somehow incredibly unbearable during the summer – the open-air auto-sale is packed.

Of course, Riko seems to be one of very, very few women around.

She picks her way through the crowd, lifting her hair off the nape of her neck. Shun, who seems infuriatingly unaffected by the weather, is several steps ahead of her and in danger of disappearing from her line of sight. Riko sighs, reaching into her pocket for a spare elastic band – the last one broke, of course – and sticks it between her teeth, gathering her hair into a tight ponytail as high up as she can.

“Shun, you colossal ass, _wait_ for me!”

The exclamation attracts more attention than Riko is strictly comfortable with – women are never the majority at open-yard auto sales – but seeing as Shun has stopped and is looking back – rather apologetically – Riko supposes she has accomplished her purpose, at least.

“Almost there,” Shun says when Riko catches up, pretending not to notice the finger Riko is giving the peanut gallery. He puts a cautionary hand on her shoulder, though, when some of the looks change from appraising to ugly.

The car, when they get to it, is an ’88 Nissan Z31 – or at least, the body of what used to be an ’88 Nissan Z31. It must have been white, at some point: now, it is a dull gunmetal gray, dented in more places than one. The axels are in place, but the wheels are long gone.

“Scrap metal,” Riko says, folding her arms across her chest and shooting Shun an exasperated look. “I know this is an auto _parts_ sale – but _serviceable auto parts_ , Shun, what part of that is difficult to understand?”

“Ah,” Shun says, giving Riko his trademark _I see something you don’t_ smile, “that’s because you haven’t looked under the hood. Look before you leap, remember?”

Riko gives him a sidelong glare as she moves to lift the Nissan’s hood. “Since when do you quote proverbs instead of puns, Izuki-chan?” She slots her fingernails in the crevice between the hood and the body. It opens up with an ominous creak, displacing a shower of red-brown rust. Riko shoots Shun another look of disbelief before leaning in, hands gripping the sides of the car. Shun nods at the engine.

It looks newer than the rest of the car, metal shinier, not as rusty. Riko finds herself grinning, almost without realizing it. “Parallel turbo,” she says, “it’s been tuned.”

Shun shrugs. “I thought maybe if we find an enthusiast – the ’88 model was a special release, you know?”

Riko blows a lock of her hair out of her face, straightening up, brushing off her palms. “You think you can find a buyer?”

Shun shrugs, hooking his thumbs through his belt-loops. “If you can fix it, I can sell it.”

Riko turns her brightest – 500 megawatts, Junpei calls it – smile at him. “Is that a challenge?”

Before Shun can reply, Teppei appears out of the crowd, infuriatingly tall, smiling widely. There is another man behind him: red-haired, and even taller, if that is at all possible.

“There you guys are,” Teppei says, far too loud and cheerful. “You disappeared on me.”

“To work,” Riko says, turning up the accusation, “you’re the one socializing.” She nods at his companion. “Hi. Is there a reason you’re distracting my partner from his job?”

He looks unfazed, which Riko finds (grudgingly) impressive, sticking out a large, square-fingered hand. “Kagami Taiga,” he says, “I’m a street racer. It’s nice to meet you.”

 

***

 

**0.** **April**

It is a well-accepted fact that Riko’s father is hardly, if ever, satisfied with her life choices. It’s part of his job-description as her father: to be as disappointed as he possibly can with everything she has ever done and ever will do. The greatest of Riko’s failures to date – because there’s always room for greater failures – is turning down the opportunity to go to university in favor of acquiring a two-year vocational degree – to become a mechanic. 

On its own, this might not have been as big of a problem as it turned out to be, except that

a) the university was Toudai, and they’d offered her a partial scholarship on four years’ tuition  
b) Riko’s uncle’s son had also been accepted to Toudai, and was going  
c) that was the year Riko left home to room with (one of) her best friend(s), Kiyoshi Teppei, an absolute sweetheart of a man Riko’s father detested, mainly because Kiyoshi was everything Riko’s father no longer was: clever, charming, and, this last was perhaps the biggest of Kagetora’s grievances against Teppei: beloved by Riko.

The combined effect of the abovementioned factors was (in hyperbolic, figurative terms) something not dissimilar to an atomic bomb. Friends and extended family members still talk about that summer over reunion dinner parties, with the sort of hushed awe generally reserved for survivors of natural disasters, or the said atomic bomb.

Such conversations occur (more than seven years later) in spite of the fact that Riko and her father have since made up and are (once again) the best of friends (in the way that only he and Riko _can_ be friends), mainly due to the extended-family tendency towards gossip.

Perhaps, Riko thinks in retrospect, her father might not have been so angry if he hadn’t thought she was sleeping with Teppei, which, in fact, she wasn’t. _That_ didn’t happen till much later, when she and Teppei were half-way through vocational school and had finally caught wind of the many, extensive rumors surrounding them. What followed was a whirlwind romance, the stuff of _josei animanga_ – because, of course, they were too old for _shoujo_ at the time – followed by an amicable parting and the knowledge that really, they were better off friends.

“You could’ve,” Kagetora grouches, as he locks up the gym. His breath mists in the air, “become a trainer and helped me out around here, at least, instead of opening a _garage_. A _garage_.”

“I _like_ cars, daddy,” Riko tells him, “and if I’d wanted to become a trainer I wouldn’t have gone to school anyway.”

“Could’ve been a great coach,” Kagetora continues to mutter, “or a lawyer, yeah, imagine that. My little girl a lawyer, but instead of working in a nice office you’re elbow-deep in grease.”

He sounds a little like a cranky old woman, which kind of makes sense, in context, because he’s been both _mommy_ and _daddy_ to Riko since Riko’s been old enough to understand the concept of _mommy_ and _daddy_. That, Riko thinks, is the reason he loves her despite the disappointments, and she loves him despite the anger.

“Twenty-five and unmarried,” Kagetora says, unlocking the front door, “God knows you’ve had the opportunity but you keep turning ‘em down,” he pulls off his jacket and hangs it on the coat-hook just inside the door, “and what does that Kiyoshi boy do? He takes half your profit from that garage, doesn’t he, it’s just like him: stole you and never married you – ”

“Daddy, Teppei and I co-own the garage,” Riko reminds him, “of course half the profit’s his. And you wouldn’t have wanted him to marry me anyway. You hate him, remember?”

She tilts her head to the side, looking him in the eye. He’s never been the tallest man in the world, her father, and he’s stooped now, with age, so that, standing in front of each other as they are, his face is at Riko’s eye-level.

“You could’ve been a doctor,” Kagetora says imperatively.

Riko kisses him, pressing her lips briefly to his weathered cheek. “Daddy, I’m a mechanic. I’ll see you at dinner on Sunday, okay? It’s your turn to cook.” 

“All I’ve got to do is cut you celery, isn’t that right?” His voice, laced with wicked amusement, follows her down the steps from the house.

Riko slides her hands into her pockets, turning to look up at him. “You do that and I’ll go eat at Junpei’s,” she threatens, “his mom’s a great cook.”

Her father’s eyes light up. “That’s a great idea,” he calls, too loudly, “I’ll join you, and afterwards I’ll see if I can’t get you to marry Junpei!”

Riko rolls her eyes. “Bye, daddy.”

Around the corner from her father’s house, Riko finds herself several paces behind a tall, drop-shouldered figure in an overlarge jacket and cuffed jeans. She stifles a laugh. Speak of the devil.

“You really oughta check your posture,” she says as she falls into step next to him, “you walk like an old man.”

“Hey, Riko,” Junpei says, glancing down at her. He looks completely unfazed, a testament to a childhood spent living in fear of Riko jumping out at him around corners and from inside closets.

“Hey, Junpei.”

“Been to visit your dad?”

“Mmhmm.”

“How is he?”

“Ah, same old, same old. I helped him with his bookkeeping, he grumbled at me,” Riko deepens her voice in a credible imitation of her father’s, “could’ve been Empress of Japan, Riko, you could still go to university, Riko, why don’t you marry Junpei, Riko?”

Junpei winces in response to the last statement. “If I say _definitely not_ , will you hit me?”

Riko shrugs. “The feeling’s mutual, so I guess I’ll let you off, this time.”

“Ouch,” Junpei says, anyway. He’s silent for a moment, and then he says, “fathers, huh.”

“I love my father,” Riko says staunchly. “Don’t go getting ideas now, Hyuuga Junpei.”

“Of course not, ma’am,” Junpei mutters. He comes to a stop at the end of the block, where he is going to turn right, and Riko will go left. He looks consideringly down at her.

 “Say – I might drop by the garage sometime this week, if you’ve got the time. My Subaru needs looking at; I want an _expert_ opinion,” he reaches out to run his fingers along the short, bristly hair at her nape, “this is getting messy; you gonna come in for a trim anytime soon?”

Riko tips her head back to look at him in the face. “Nah, I was thinking about growing it out, maybe,” she takes a couple steps backward, and laughs at the disbelieving look Junpei throws her.

“You’re right,” she says, “ – I will. Maybe I’ll even let you put in a little color this time.”

 

***

 

Riko tosses her coat in the corner, unwinding her scarf from around her neck. She’s been indoors for all of two minutes, and she is already uncomfortably warm, the back of her neck prickly where the scarf chafed at the skin.

Mitobe is putting the final touches on a customer’s paint-job, nodding along to whatever is playing through his headphones. Koganei is nowhere to be seen – he’s probably manning the front desk. Teppei’s jeaned legs stick out from underneath a Hiace – he is humming, tunelessly, Riko notes, as she adjusts the strap of her overalls and goes to kick his good foot.

“You’re on break now, Teppei,” she says, “I’m back.”

“Ouch, Riko-chan,” Teppei says, not sounding hurt at all, “alright, hang on a second; I’m almost done.”

True to word, he slides out from underneath the van, shoving his gloves into his pocket and pulling his safety glasses up over his forehead.

“You look like that guy from that really old American movie,” Riko observes, “you know, Back to the Future?”

“You mean Marty McFly?” Teppei grins, lopsided. “Thanks, Riko-chan.”

Riko throws a towel at him. “No,” she says, with the straightest face she can manage, “the _other_ guy, Dr. Brown.”

Teppei pulls a face at her, running his fingers through his hair. “And here I thought that _maybe_ you were actually giving me a compliment, for once.”

“And the sky comes falling down,” Riko says brightly, and ducks out of reach. “Go on, old man.”

Teppei makes a half-hearted gesture at her as he puts away the safety glasses and closes the lid of his toolbox. “The new stuff came in, by the way, if you feel like running inventory. That’s really all there’s left to do today.”

“Yay, inventory,” Riko says, “okay. Bye-bye, Teppei.”

The new stuff – in Teppei’s eloquent words – includes two shelves, a drawer set, a floor jack to replace the one Koganei broke the month before, and several toolsets Riko hadn’t been aware they needed. She makes a mental note to ask Teppei to stop covering for employees misplacing tools. Friends they may be, but work is work.

She is in the midst of assembling shelf the second when Koganei sticks his head into the supply room.

“Hey, chief,” he says, “there’s a customer up front I think you might want to deal with personally.”

Riko huffs at him. “I’m _busy_ ,” she mutters, even as she is getting to her feet.

“Sorry?” Koganei shrugs.

Riko pulls at the strings of her mechanic’s apron, tossing it onto the half-built shelf. It falls into a heap of stiff folds. “It’s fine,” she says, “my feet were cramping up, anyway.” She follows Koganei down the hall and into the front of the shop, glancing at the tall, darkened windows. A look at the wall-clock informs her there are ten minutes to sunset, and time has flown past unnoticed, as it is wont to do.

The front room of the shop – where Teppei and Riko entertain their customers – is a long, narrow room set out very much like a waiting room: floor-to-ceiling windows, chairs lining the walls, a counter in the back. The walls are mostly bare, other than a handful of framed stock photos Koganei put up because _the room looks empty, chief_.

The customer in question is sitting on one of the chairs by the desk, head bent over one of Teppei’s _Hot Rods_ magazines. Her hair – because the customer is, unexpectedly, a woman – is a striking bubblegum pink, pulled back and twisted into a messy chignon at the nape of her neck, revealing a pale, pretty profile with the sort of dainty-featured beauty Riko can only aspire to. She is wearing an over-sized boat-neck sweater – creamy white– over black leggings, impossibly long legs crossed at the ankles.

She looks like a model, or an actress.

For a moment, Riko is tempted to ask if she is sure she is in the right place, but squashes the impulse as rude.

Koganei clears his throat, saying, “ma’am, Aida Riko,” and the customer looks up, face brightening as she gets to her feet, putting the magazine down. She has arresting, scarlet eyes.

“Wow,” she says, “Kagamin didn’t tell me you were _hot_.” She blinks. “Though, of course, he probably didn’t even notice – ”

Riko schools her expression into something ‘professionally blank’, her face mercifully cool. “Aida Riko,” she says, holding out a perfunctory hand. “And you are – ?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Koganei making a hasty retreat.

The customer blushes. Riko notes, casually, that her ears have turned red, too.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry – I put my foot in my mouth again, haven’t I?” She takes Riko’s hand. Her fingers are cool, grip strong. Riko wouldn’t be surprised if she practices her handshakes. “Momoi Satsuki,” she says, “but you can call me Satsuki. Actually,” she drops her voice to a confidential whisper, “I’d actually prefer it – no formality, you know?” Her smile is so bright it is blinding.

“Fine,” Riko says, more brusque than she’d intended, “how can I help you, Satsuki-san?”

“I’ve got a car I want modified,” Satsuki says, motioning at the door, behind her, with her thumb. Her smile turns wry. “You know how it is, Riko-chan, fresh off the assembly-line is never as good as it _potentially_ can be.”

Riko, whose heart stopped somewhere on _Riko-chan_ , blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I’d prefer if you don’t mess with the exterior too much,” Satsuki says, making a broad gesture with her hands, “sleepers are more fun to drive, anyway: surprise factor! It doesn’t need much, but I’d like to amp up the power, a little, you know?”

It takes a moment, but Riko’s brain finally catches up with the program.

“Street racing is illegal,” she says flatly, “we don’t make performance modifications here.”

Satsuki tips her head to the side. “That’s not what Kagamin told me,” she says, “you fixed his F355 last year, remember? Bright red, nine-hundred hp engine?”

“Kagami-kun is in the States,” Riko neglects to mention she does, indeed remember Kagami’s Ferrari. It’d be hard to forget that particular vehicle or its reckless, ridiculously talented driver.

_(A screech. The turn is too tight, car spinning out of control.)_

 She regrets the little she has said almost immediately.

“So you do know him,” Satsuki says, gleefully, “he is, actually, but seeing as he’s one of my best friends, we actually spoke over the weekend, when he recommended you to me. I know you tune race cars, Riko-chan.”

Riko sighs, contemplates asking Satsuki to stop calling her Riko-chan, and decides it would take too much effort. “I did,” she says, instead, tone clipped, “but I don’t, anymore. Sorry – you’re going to have to find someone else.”

“That’s such a waste,” Satsuki makes a face – delicate features creasing into something that can only be described as a pout. Riko might add _adorable_ to that description, if she were so inclined.

She isn’t, however, inclined, so she puts on her best professional smile and says, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

There is a moment of silence, which drags on long enough for Riko to begin thinking of the best way to ask Satsuki to leave without sounding completely rude. Before she can speak, Satsuki says,

“At least take a look at it?”

She runs her fingers through her hair, the action loosening several wavy curls, which drop to frame her face.

“My usual mechanic isn’t in the country anymore, or I wouldn’t be troubling you with this.”

“Okay,” Riko says. She levels a hard look in Satsuki’s direction. “Just a look.”

“Yes!” Satsuki clasps her hands, briefly, underneath her chin, “come on, it’s just out front.”

Outside, it is dark, the last of the sunset dull purple along the horizon. Riko flips on the lot lights, flooding the parking area with bright, fluorescent white, bringing Satsuki’s car – a brilliant, glossy mint-green – into stark relief.

For a moment, Riko stares at it, forgetting to breathe.

Her first thought is that Satsuki’s car is as unlike Satsuki as it possible (for a car) to be: built along powerful, compact curves. It is a tenth gen Lancer Evolution GSR, more strapping than sleek – the ultimate muscle car. That isn’t to say it isn’t aerodynamic – the wings and front spoiler are a casual contradiction to any claims against its speed.

Riko slides her hands into her pockets, feet shoulder-width apart. “Semi-automatic or manual?,” she asks, carefully blasé.

She can hear the grin in Satsuki’s voice as the other girl comes to stand by Riko’s shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest. Riko can smell her perfume: something dense and edgy, but distinctly floral. “What do you peg me for?” Her face is in half-shadow, eyes narrow and catlike.

Riko shrugs. “The twin-clutch SST is supposed to be pretty sweet,” she says, “but serious drivers – drive stick.”

Satsuki laughs, clear and bright. “I guess that makes me a serious driver, huh.” She tilts her head, giving Riko a crooked smile. “Wanna take it for a spin? I put in an extra filter but otherwise she’s still factory.”

Riko hesitates. Satsuki, looking at her the way she is, does not fail to notice. Her smile widens.

_(A loud, ominous crunch as they careen into the guardrail. The smell of smoke.  Thick dark clouds rising, dense, heavy.)_

 “No,” Riko says. I haven’t driven in almost a year, she thinks.

“Turning me down is really bad for rep, you know,” Satsuki says. She is still smiling, but her eyes are serious.  “You know there has to be a way for me to maintain a hobby like this.”

Riko remembers her earlier thought of Satsuki being a model or an actress. She adds _yakuza head of family_ to the list.

“I always wear my seatbelt, you know,” Satsuki continues.

 She looks ethereal, illuminated by the bright yard lights, like something delicate. Like something breakable.

_(Distant shouting. The sound of ripping, tearing. Pain: sharp, searing. Smoke, growing stronger.)_

 “I’m a really safe driver.”

Abruptly, and though she is outside, Riko feels as though she is being caged in, like she should be running somewhere, like she needs to escape. Satsuki, she thinks dimly, makes a beautiful bully.

“Fine,” she says, and it feels like giving up, “fine, I’ll modify your car. But I’m not responsible if something happens to you, or the people on the road with you, get it?”

“Oh, yes,” Satsuki exclaims, alight with enthusiasm. She surges forward, and suddenly, Riko is caught up in strong slender arms and is inhaling a mouthful of hair. “Thank you,” Satsuki exclaims, muffled, into Riko’s shoulder –

–  her stomach plummets into her feet, and Riko wonders just what on earth she has gotten herself into.

 

***

 

            **80.**

Wednesday morning finds Riko sitting on the garage floor, hunched over a diagram on her work bench, a graphite stick clenched in one hand. The diagram is an approximation of Satsuki’s Lancer, with its stats printed on the side: engine specs, acceleration, weight, top speed –

The garage stereo is playing something loud and headache-inducing; in the far corner, Koganei is overseeing one of the new hires, Furihata, in stacking tires, as loudly as he possibly can. He – Koganei, that is – is probably making the most of being in a position of (relative) command.

Riko bites her lip, forcibly quelling the urge to scream at them to _shut the hell up_ and _turn that infernal music off_. In her hand, the graphite stick breaks in two.

“Work somewhere quieter,” Teppei says, as he is passing by, a gas tank in one hand and pliers in the other. “What’re you so stressed about, anyway?”

“She said she was coming in to drop the car off today,” Riko says, pinching the bridge of her nose, her nostrils flaring, “I’ve had a week, but I haven’t had time to think about what I’m going to be doing at all. I don’t want her to think I’m not taking this seriously.”

The statement is not _entirely_ true, but Teppei does not need to know that. He doesn’t need to know Riko spent the weekend in front of her ancient desktop computer in her favorite ratty t-shirt and jeans,  scrolling through internet articles on Momoi Satsuki.

Initially, she’d sat down with the intention of discovering what sort of driver Satsuki was, because, after all, it is important to be familiar with a swordsman’s style when creating their weapon. At least, that is what she told herself – because, of course, it would be very difficult – if not impossible – to find actual footage of any races Satsuki might have participated in, on the internet.

 As far as Riko knows, street racers might be slightly suicidal, but don’t have any real desire for jail time. Most prison cells do not provide the right environment for adrenaline junkies with barely any self-preservation instincts.

Several futile video searches later –  which turned up only interviews and were carried out mostly to assuage the sense of _what the hell am I doing_ – found Riko at a celebrity news site article with the title Model-Turned-Singer Momoi Satsuki To Record New Album. She scrolled down almost instinctually – and, after she’d read it through, followed the click-through link at the bottom of the article to another.

And that, Riko thinks, avoiding Teppei’s searching, clever eyes, is the story of how she came to spend the weekend learning various bits of trivia on their new customer, including but not limited to: she’s a Taurus (Gemini Moon, Aquarius Rising), blood type A, four whole centimeters taller than Riko, enjoys collecting bath powders, eating cherries, and can apparently tie the stalks into knots with her tongue – all of which would probably be useful information to a creepy fan/stalker, but definitely not to a mechanic.

Just thinking about all the time lost makes Riko want to put her head down and cry.

Teppei puts his tank down, crouching to look Riko in the eye. His trouser legs ride up, revealing one bony ankle and one metallic one.

_(Screeching. A dull, sickening crunch.)_

“Riko,” he says, grave, “you don’t have to do jobs you don’t want to do, you know that.”

Riko stares at him. “What,” she says, and winces, internally, at how hostile she sounds, “ _you_ wanna do it?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Teppei says, “I meant you didn’t have to take it on at all, if you – ”

“Yes, well, it’s too late for that,” Riko mutters, dropping her gaze, hoping he’ll take the hint. She doesn’t want to talk about it – doesn’t want him to dig further, or ask her _why_ – because there is a part of her that doesn’t want to have to explain she might have taken on the job because she wanted to, that she might be finished brooding and is ready to catch up.

Of course, the larger part of her is angry at herself for even considering the idea. She feels as though she is being pulled in too many directions at once, like a dog’s chew toy.

Teppei nods, as if he is privy to her internal dialogue. “Take it slow,” he says, and grins, suddenly, dropping her a broad wink. “Blow her out of the water, yeah? Shinji told me  – ” He breaks off, laughing, as Riko swats his shoulder, her face heating up.

“Go away,” she orders, resolutely setting her weekend’s activities behind her, “go fix a truck, or something. You’re a nuisance.”

Teppei gets to his feet, ruffling her hair as he does – an old habit of his, and so a comforting one. Riko gives in to the impulse to stick her tongue out at him, the exchange leaving her feeling lighter. She picks up the longer half of her stick of graphite and turns back to the diagram, circling the label _weight_ and drags out an arrow to _top speed_. She underlines it, several times, for emphasis.

Flipping the paper over, she sketches out a spider diagram, eyebrows furrowing with concentration. Somewhere behind her, Teppei convinces Koganei to be quieter, and someone puts another CD into the stereo. There are several moments of silence, and then Johnny Cash’s ’76 hit _One Piece at a Time_ starts up.

Riko smiles.

 

***

 

The wall-clock by the storage shelves reads half-past one when Teppei passes Riko’s workbench – she is finishing up with fitting an exhaust to a Nissan Altima – and he is looking uncharacteristically harried and overworked. His hair is sticking up in true mad-scientist style, and he has a wrench in his pocket that is in danger of slipping out.

“Ah, Riko,” he says, pausing a moment and running his hands through his hair, “finished with that? There’s a customer here with an axle that needs replacing. Do you mind – ”

Riko stands, brushing her palms off.  “Of course not,” she says, reaching out to stow Teppei’s wrench deeper into his pocket so that it does not end up falling on his toe. Changing an axle isn’t a big deal at all; it’s something Riko can (probably) do in her sleep, unlike painting toe-nails or sewing a straight line. “I’ll be right over.”

It is, as Riko had predicted, a quick job. She is crouched on the floor, by the white Corolla Teppei had pointed out to her, putting the axle nut back in place, eyebrows furrowed over her safety-glasses, when a thick pink braid falls into her line of vision and a cheery voice says, almost directly into Riko’s ear,

“How’s it going, Riko-chan?”

Riko bites the inside of her cheek to keep from exploding like a jack-in-a-box.

“Satsuki-san,” Riko says, once she has re-attached the wheel’s hubcap and lowered the car to the ground. She raises the safety-glasses back onto her head. “What a – pleasant surprise. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Satsuki’s slender shoulders lift-and-drop in a careless shrug. “Ah, that’s alright,” she says, smoothening out the folds in her knee-length blue skirt. The skirt is paired with an off-white short-sleeved blouse and laced-up thigh-highs – an ensemble that would, on anyone else (by which Riko means herself) look positively infantile – but on Satsuki is the definition of urban chic.

Satsuki is tall and thin and _stacked_ – Riko’s pretty sure that’s not how biology works, but here’s an anomaly –

Riko tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear, heaving an internal sigh. It isn’t fair for Satsuki to waltz into _her_ space and immediately upstage her in it. Riko’s worked hard for her space, dammit. She deserves a break, not for some fashionable pretty girl (celebrity, Riko’s traitorous mind reminds her, there’s a celebrity in my garage) to casually turn Riko’s world upside down.

 “Whoa there, grease monkey,” Satsuki says, and without so much as a forewarning, swipes her thumb across Riko’s cheekbone, leaving an odd prickly warmth in her wake. “Something tells me this isn’t mascara.” She smiles, broadly, in response to the dumbfounded expression on Riko’s face.

“Don’t sweat it,” she says, “it’s a great look. Grungy, I’d say, perfect for a steampunk inspired mechanic photo-shoot. It’s not like you need mascara, anyway.” Then she lifts her hand to cover her mouth. “Whoops, there I go again. Don’t mind me.”

“Whatever, it’s fine,” Riko says, in direct contradiction to the warmth in her cheeks. She pulls her safety glasses all the way off, stuffs them into her pocket, and runs her fingers through her hair, in an attempt to flatten it out, to no avail.  A quick glance in the car’s windshield informs her that she still looks like a plainer, browner version of Sonic the Hedgehog. “Right, okay – why don’t you come this way,” and she gestures vaguely down the hall.

“Teppei,” she calls as she is leaving, Satsuki trailing behind her, “I’m going to be in the office, send me a message if you need me!”

“Will do,” Teppei nods, sends a wave her way. “Thanks, Riko.”

“You guys sound really close,” Satsuki says, when they are out of earshot and Riko is unlocking the office. There is an odd little smile in her voice that strikes Riko as too familiar, given the length of their acquaintance.

Riko blinks. “Excuse me?”

Never mind the fact that Riko spent her weekend stalking Satsuki; it isn’t Riko’s fault Satsuki is a minor internet phenomenon with hundreds of web pages to her name.

Riko pushes the door open, sticking the key back into her pocket and sliding a door jamb into the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor tiles.

“You and Kiyoshi-san,” Satsuki says by way of explanation.

“I guess,” Riko lifts her eyebrows, “I didn’t know you made a hobby of prying into people’s personal lives,” and silences the voice in her mind that coughs _hypocrite_.

Satsuki back-tracks, lifting her hands in apology. “Ah, touchy, Riko-chan,” she says, placating, “just making an observation.” She clears her throat, puts on a mock-serious face, comically deepening her voice. “Well, if you’d rather just get down to it.”

Riko barely refrains from doing something unprofessional, like squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Yeah,” she says, instead. “Why don’t you have a seat – ” and she brings out the two stapled sheets of A4 paper from her overalls, unfolding them and smoothening out the creases.

Satstuki, forgoing the chair(s), sits, expectantly, on the edge of Riko’s desk, crossing one (long, slender) leg over the other. Heroically, Riko quells the urge to pass judgment, placing the diagram on the table.

“Right,” Riko begins, “your biggest issue basically boils down to top speed,” she taps the label with her fingernail, “which is about 266 km/hr, which ordinarily would be spectacular, but not for the setting you’re looking at.”

“Okay,” Satsuki is smiling, an upward quirk of her painted-red mouth.

Riko’s sixth sense tells her there is more to the smile than just encouragement. She feels as though she is being tested, or something, which makes no sense but is still incredibly irritating.

Keep your head in the game, Aida Riko, she tells herself, and moves on.

“The acceleration is decent,” Riko circles the _0-100, 5.3sec_ on her diagram, “but if we maximize engine efficiency, we might be able to shave a second or two off that, too.”

“Brilliant,” Satsuki nods, “so, what’s the plan?” she grins. “You gonna put in a supercharger? Revamp my air inflow system?”

“Slow down,” Riko says, before she’s thought, and flips a page, ducking her head so her fringe falls forward to cover her face, “I’m actually thinking more along the lines of weight reduction. It’s basic, but makes a huge difference, if you play your cards right.”

Satsuki inclines her head. “Point,” she says, suddenly serious, like someone has flipped a switch, “basics are basics for a reason.” She takes up Riko’s notes, glances through them. “Well, you can start by taking out the back seats,” she says, “I’m not going to be using them, anyway.”

She sets the pages down, gives Riko an easy grin, eyes crinkling around the edges. “If you feel up to it,” she continues, “I’d suggest switching out the wheels for lighter ones, and replacing the hood and roof with something lighter. I’m thinking a carbon fiber reinforced plastic, maybe?”

Riko stares.

Satsuki inspects the end of her braid. “You look surprised,” she says, raising her head to look Riko straight in the eye. “I did say I’ve done this before, didn’t I?”

Riko bites the inside of her cheek before she can say what she wants to say, which is, the only thing I’m surprised at is your nerve, implying that I’m unprofessional. What do you mean, if I feel up to it? It’s my job, because it is her job, to smile and pretend there is nothing she wants more than to cater to a customer’s whim.

Ah, fucking customer service.

“Silly me, to forget your prior experiences,” Riko says, forcing a smile. “But Satsuki-san, please, remember that if there’s a job we can do, we will do it. It isn’t a matter of _feeling up to it_.”

Satsuki has shrewd eyes, Riko thinks. It’s very unbecoming for a model to look as sly and crafty as Satsuki does. Satsuki’s entire face is wrong for modeling: face too narrow, brows too thick, nose too long, lips too thin. It is amazing Riko did not notice before, distracted by the superficial characteristics of bubblegum pink hair and equally bubblegum pink personality.

 _Yakuza head_ , Riko’s brain murmurs. She decides she will be very upset if Satsuki’s new album does not feature her as one, or at least a spy-story-type femme fatale. If they were friends, she would suggest it.

“Is that so,” Satsuki is smiling again, sharp, meaningful. “Then – can you modify my engine?”

Shit, Riko thinks _, cornered_ , and tries to think of a way to reply without sounding like a fraud, or a cheap pushover. Several moments of silence elapse, while she tries and fails to gather her thoughts.

Satsuki heaves a sigh, sliding off the edge of the desk to stand in front of Riko.

“Listen,” she says, reaching out to touch Riko’s shoulder, “I know you probably feel obligated to stand your ground on this matter.”

 _Do you_ , Riko thinks, blank. Satsuki’s hand feels like a brand.

“And I know that you have no proof I will not turn out to be an inexperienced driver with no regard for safety and the rules of the road.”

Riko’s eyebrows lift, reflexively. Satsuki’s lips twitch.

“Okay, I know,” she says, laughing again, and gives Riko a shake, “I’m not making a very good case for myself. So how about you come _watch_ me race, instead?”

“Watch you race,” Riko repeats, “you’re going to convince me by making me watch you commit voluntary suicide.”

The part of Riko that remembers spending the weekend looking for videos of just that – Satsuki racing – thinks, _bring it on_.

Satsuki shakes her head. “I’m not going to _make_ you do anything,” she says. “I’m just issuing an invitation. Friday, 10:30 PM, Route 522, off the Chuo Expressway. What do you say?”

Riko knows what she is going to say almost before she says it. Despite her reservations, she can’t bring herself to pretend she does not want to watch Satsuki race. She’s curious; she can’t help it. Curiosity has always been Riko’s weakness: the _thing_ that drags her into scary, terrifying situations she’d otherwise avoid like the plague, like the time she let Shun dare her into bungee-jumping off the Tokyo Sky Tree.

Satsuki is looking intently at Riko, worrying her lip in what seems like an unconscious gesture. Amazingly, she manages to keep her lipstick off her teeth.

“Okay,” Riko says, finally, “I’ll come watch – ” the words are lost in Satsuki’s hair as she lets out an exuberant _whoop_ and pulls Riko into one of her bone-crushing hugs.

 

***

 

Satsuki’s cellphone goes off as Riko is locking up the office. Riko focuses on turning the key just so and tries not to listen in on Satsuki’s conversation. It is tough going, mainly because Satsuki – apparently – has no concept of indoor voices and personal space.

“Sure, Dai-chan,” she is saying, one arm still slung around Riko’s shoulders, “yeah, I’m done – I’ll be right out.” She flips her phone shut and gives Riko a blinding grin. “My ride’s here.”

Riko shrugs out from underneath Satsuki’s arm. “Great,” she says. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work, now – ”

“Dai-chan, over here!”

Riko trails off, because Satsuki is no longer listening. Instead, she is waving enthusiastically – with her entire arm – at a tall, dark-skinned man walking into the garage, accompanied by a starry-eyed Koganei, who is ushering him down the hall, with barely contained enthusiasm. And no wonder, Riko thinks, watching Aomine give Satsuki a languid nod, Aomine Daiki has been one of Japan’s favorite racers since his appearance on the pro circuit. 

Riko’s never been what popculture describes as a _fangirl_ but she thinks she might be a little starstruck, herself.

“Wow,” she finds herself saying, “your ride is Aomine Daiki?” She stops before she can add something ridiculously inane, like _how famous ARE you_.

“Yep,” Satsuki gives Riko a side-ways smile, “and if you show up to the race on Friday, you can come watch me kick his ass.”

 

***

 

            **160.**

Junpei’s car is a ’95 Subaru Impreza that he bought second-hand while still in high school. He takes the same meticulous care of it he does every aspect of his life – Junpei, contrary to general first impressions of him – is a methodical old soul. He’s never been the enthusiast Riko and Teppei are, but he knows enough to run his own maintenance, at least. He’s always adamantly denied any _illegal modifications,_ but Riko knows him too well to believe that.

On the outside, the Subaru is completely ordinary: an understated pearl gray, factory headlights, nothing obvious or flashy, rather like Junpei himself. But out here on the uphill stretches of the Chuo Expressway, six hundred meters above sea level – well. Riko thinks the engine is far too quiet, eating up the inclines as though they are flat stretches of road, without any effort at all.

In the driver’s seat, Junpei unclasps his jacket with one hand, reaching out to twiddle with the thermostat.

“What the hell did you and Teppei do to this thing,” Riko says, finally, breaking the hum of the engine, the hiss of the air conditioner.

“Hmm?” Junpei changes gears, eyes fixed on the road. “Oh, the filters needed replacing.”

“You think you’re so smart,” Riko mutters. “This isn’t _just filters_. You changed out the exhaust system. You’ve got a booster tank in here somewhere.”

Junpei says, “ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” and shoots Riko a self-assured sort of grin in the mirror.

“If you weren’t driving, I’d pinch you,” Riko threatens, narrowing her eyes, “behave. Your mother didn’t raise you to be such a fucking ass.”

Junpei rolls his eyes. “Like you’d know,” he says, sounding purposefully abrasive, “you’re not my mother. –and if yours was around she’d soap _your_ fuckin’ mouth out.”

“Pot, kettle, black, Junpei?” Riko catches Junpei’s eye in the mirror, grinning– he is mock-scowling, mouth turned down deep at the corners – and for a moment he just _stares_ – but then his mouth twitches and the scowl dissolves into (infectious) laughter.

“Do you remember that one time in middle school you wanted to join a gang,” Riko says, while she is raiding the dashboard for tissues to wipe her eyes, “you were like, _I’m gonna save up for a motorcycle_ and you bleached your hair. You looked like a fucking idiot, in case I never told you.”

“You’ve told me too often,” Junpei says, wry. He gives her a look. “What’s got you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” Riko drums her fingers against her knee.

“Yes, you are,” Junpei says, “you’re swearing, aren’t you?”

“Shut up, Junpei, I hate you.”

“Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll just ask Teppei later.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Riko begins, and catches sight of the little green signboard labelled 522 on Junpei’s side of the road. “There’s our exit,” she says, too loud, “hurry the fuck up, you’ll miss it – ”

“Calm _down_ ,” Junpei makes the turn, not a moment too soon, in Riko’s opinion. The car shudders as he changes gears, picks up speed. “It’s a quarter past ten; there’s plenty of time.”

“Not if we’d had to make a U-turn,” Riko grumbles, “you suck. Next time, I’m driving.”

“Drive your own car,” Junpei says, and continues, theatrically, “oh, _wait_ , you don’t have one, because you sold it, for a tenth of its price.”

“Junpei, shut up,” Riko says, with a lot of unnecessary venom.

“Sorry,” Junpei says, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “but you know, Teppei didn’t sell _his_ car. I should know; it’s taking up space in my building’s garage, along with Shun’s motorcycle. Hey – why’d you never make fun of Shun – ”

“Because he wears a helmet and is polite to old ladies,” Riko says, and takes the opportunity to move the microscope away from her life onto Junpei’s, “yeah, what are you three old men doing in that apartment, anyway, it’s weird and creepy.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Junpei says, conveniently forgetting he’d been the one to lose track mid-conversation, “you know, Riko, it was never your fault; I don’t know why you keep beating – ”

“How are Teppei and Shun,” Riko interjects, loudly, never mind she’d seen them both within the last forty-eight hours.

“Bearable, if that’s what you mean,” Junpei says, taking pity on her, “I drew up a List of House Rules for them to follow so I don’t tear my hair out in frustration.”

“What sort of frustration is that, _Junpei-chan_?” Riko’s voice turns saccharine.

“Ha ha, Riko, ha ha,” Junpei says, and his expression turns pensive. Riko waits for him to elaborate, but the next several moments elapse in silence, and, as they round the next corner, a viewpoint - an area in the road where the shoulder has been made wider than usual – comes into view.

It has been turned into an impromptu parking lot; Riko counts four, all flashy and flamboyant, cars –  but the most eye-catching vehicle is a hot pink Toyota Supra – it looks like the 2000 model, but it’s hard to tell – with a black roof and hood details. The front grill and wheel rims are black, too.

“Wow,” Junpei whistles through his teeth, as he is bringing the Subaru to a stop and killing the engine.

“That must be Satsuki’s car,” Riko mutters, and sure enough, she can make out Satsuki’s long, lean figure – bluejeans, leather jacket, Riko realizes, with a sudden sinking feeling in her stomach – standing by the Supra, casually leaning against the cabin, in the middle of an animated conversation with a tall, dark-haired man perched on the hood of a pale-blue-and-white Porsche. Her hair, pulled into a high ponytail, stands out bright against the black of her jacket.

Hell, Riko thinks, why the _fuck_ am I nervous?

 

***

 

“Come on, Junpei,” Riko fits her fingers into the door handle and tugs it open. Outside, the night air is chilly, for April. She places a sneakered foot on the tarmac, tugging her own windbreaker closed.

“You know, on second thought,” Junpei says, and Riko turns, half-in, half-out of the car, “I think I’m going to stay right here,” Riko, frowning, follows his line of sight to Satsuki’s conversation partner, who, on second glance, looks very, very familiar.

Riko almost laughs. Satsuki is talking to Mibuchi Reo, face of the January Issue of GQ Japan, the first openly gay model to be featured in the magazine.

(That’s one possible description. The second is: Junpei’s man-crush (he refuses to drop the “man”, for reasons beyond Riko’s comprehension) and the person featured most prominently in all the ‘zines he has stashed under his bed.)

“Don’t be ridiculous, Junpei, how old are you, five?” Riko walks over to Junpei’s side of the car, slides her hand under his arm and forcibly pulls him up. It isn’t as hard as she thought it would be; he’s doing a very bad job of resisting. “Most people would kill to meet their idol.”

“I’m going to end up saying something stupid,” Junpei says under his breath.

“Then don’t talk,” Riko keeps her hand tucked into his elbow, “just stand there; you’re very good at that.”

“I hate you,” Junpei mutters, but before he can explain just how much, Satsuki looks up and catches sight of them.

“Riko-chan, over here!” she calls. Her face lights up, and Riko’s stomach does that funny sinking thing again. “You made it,” she says, when Riko is within normal-speaking-volume distance.

 “Yeah, I did,” Riko says, and crosses her arms, tilting her head at Satsuki’s Supra, “what happened to _sleepers are more fun to drive, anyway_?”

Satsuki laughs. “It was a gift,” she says, “I needed a drifter, and this was friend’s idea of a joke.” She turns to Junpei, craning her neck back to look him in the face, “hi, I’m Momoi Satsuki! I don’t think we’ve met.”

“This is Hyuuga Junpei,” Riko says, tugging him forward, “he’s a friend.”

Behind Satsuki, Mibuchi Reo slinks – there’s really no other word for it – down from the hood of his car. “Are you going to introduce me, Satsuki-chan, or will I have to take the initiative?”

“I don’t think you need introducing, Reo-chan,” Satsuki says, but continues, anyway, “Riko-chan, this is Reo-chan, and Reo-chan, this is Riko-chan. She’s the mechanic I was telling you about, the one who upgraded Kagamin’s car.”

Riko finds her hand being lifted to a pair of perfectly-formed lips, “a pleasure,” Mibuchi says, sounding like something out of a Don Quixote-inspired period drama; dumbfounded, Riko nods,

“Likewise,” she says, dimly, retracting her hand as soon as she can without being impolite.

If Mibuchi notices, he does not let it show, moving on to give Junpei an appraising nod. Riko can see the imperceptible stiffening of Junpei’s shoulders, the flicker in his cheek as he – probably – bites the inside. Calm down, Junpei, Riko thinks. She makes eye contact with Satsuki, catches the funny sparkle in Satsuki’s eye; Satsuki grins, knowing.

“Don’t tell me,” Mibuchi is saying, smiling the half-smile that’s made him famous over in this side of Asia. A slight Kansai accent colors his voice, around the edges, “you’re a fan.”

There is a moment of silence, during which Riko can almost hear Junpei debate the merits of admission versus outright denial, and then Junpei holds out a hand,

“Hyuuga Junpei,” he says, coolly, like he isn’t actually falling apart on the inside. Riko thinks that, if she didn’t know better, she might actually believe it. “Yeah, I am.”

Mibuchi laughs. It is a good-natured laugh. At least, Riko thinks so; Junpei is biting the inside of his cheek again, and beginning to look belligerent. Hero or no hero, Junpei’s never taken well to being laughed at.

 “Cool _and_ candid,” Mibuchi says, “nice to meet ya, _Hyuuga Junpei-chan_.”

Junpei’s eyes widen behind his glasses, nose going a blotchy red.

“Come on,” Satsuki loops her arm through Riko’s, “I think there’s someone here you know,” and she flips her hair over one shoulder and proceeds to pull Riko along.

Riko can hear Mibuchi say, “so, are you a mechanic, too?”, and Junpei’s reply, fainter with more than just the distance,

“No, I’m a hairstylist – ”

Hopeless, Riko thinks.

“Your friend’s sort of out of his depth, isn’t he,” Satsuki says, tilting her head so she is speaking into Riko’s ear.

Riko bristles. Never mind she’d just been thinking the same thing – she’s known Junpei since she was old enough to walk; any ~~insults/mockery~~ /teasing she might subject him to are meant affectionately – but Satsuki has no right – “No, he isn’t,” she almost-snaps, “he’s just nervous.”

“Aw, is he,” Satsuki laughs, her perfume – rich, floral, with an underlying citrus-y note – going straight to Riko’s head, “well, there’s no need; Reo-chan’s a horrible tease but he loves meeting fans.”

There are two very familiar figures standing by an also-very-familiar Dodge Viper parked a little farther along the road: one the epitome of _tall, dark and handsome_ , the other shorter, with powder-blue hair Riko would recognize anywhere.

“Is that - Himuro-san and Kuroko-kun?” Riko gives Satsuki a _look_.

As Riko and Satsuki approach, Kuroko – alerted by some sixth sense, probably – looks up. He gives Riko a polite nod and a smile. He taps Himuro on the shoulder; Himuro turns, dips his head in greeting.

“Riko-san,” he says, serenely.

“In the flesh,” Satsuki grins, as Kuroko moves aside to make room for them, “are you gonna ask me how many more of your friends I’m friends with?”

“I would, if I wasn’t afraid of the answer,” Riko mutters.

“Ahh, you’re so _honest_ without your _I’m-at-work filter_ , Riko-chan,” Satsuki says, in a way that makes Riko wonder if _honest_ is the right word for what she means.

“I have an _I’m-at-work_ filter,” Riko says, by which she means, _I hadn’t realized it was no longer in place_.

Satsuki giggles.

“You do,” Himuro replies, in her stead. “I remember how differently you treated Taiga in and out of the garage.” He taps his finger on his chin, considering. “Though, now that I think of it, you’re abrasive either way. Are you ever not angry?”

Riko narrows her eyes at him, ignoring Kuroko’s delicate cough. “I’ll put you in a headlock,” she says, to no effect; he carries on looking smug. To Satsuki, she says, only half-joking, “is it going to cost me business?”

Satsuki shakes her head. “Nah,” she says, dragging the syllable out, “I actually like it. You sound like you mean what you say,” and she changes the subject before Riko can ask what that is supposed to mean, giving her watch a look and saying, theatrically, “what is _taking_ Dai-chan so long – it’s a quarter to eleven!”

“Aomine-kun’s never been famous for punctuality, Momoi-san,” Kuroko says, adjusting his wool cap so it sits more snugly around his ears.

“Taiga gives you his well-wishes,” Himuro says, as Satsuki proceeds to grill Kuroko about _did you tell him you were coming_ and _if he’s any later the sun will be up_.

“Yeah?” Riko pulls at her scarf, puts her hands into her pockets. “How is he?”

“He’s fine,” Himuro picks at his coat. He sounds like he is making an attempt to come off casual. “You know, he was at Daytona this year.”

“Oh, was he?” Riko says.

“Placed second,” Himuro smiles a little, fond. “Said he’d make sure to get first next time. You know how he is.”

Riko nods. “Right,” she says, “-how’s Garcia-san.”

Himuro’s eyebrow – the one Riko can see – lifts upward. “Upset you still feel the need to call her Garcia-san,” he says.

Riko feels herself flush. “Oh – I – ”

“She’s alright,” Himuro says. “Her hair’s chin-length now. If you gave her your new number she’d send you a picture.”

Himuro, Riko thinks, has an irritating way of disguising his censure under a veneer of indifference, like he’s saying _I’m not judging you but I am_. It pisses Riko off.

Before she can reply, the roar of an obnoxiously-loud engine fills the air, and – as Riko turns around to watch – a very dark, very glossy Mazda climbs the last stretch of road to the viewpoint.

“Finally,” Satsuki exclaims, and, as the car coasts to a stop, she cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Dai-chan, you’re _late_!”

Aomine winds his window down, setting his elbow on the door frame and leaning out.

“Lost track of time,” he says, lazily impenitent. He casts a glance around the waiting assembly and frowns. “Where’s Ryou?”

“Late shoot,” Satsuki replies, “though if he’d known you were going to show up so late he might’ve made more of an effort.”

Aomine shrugs. “Right, whatever, his loss,” and tilts his chin, though he sounds petulant. “So, you gonna stand out on the road all night or are you getting in your car?” 

 

***

 

 **The Cars:** Satsuki’s Toyota Supra vs Aomine’s Mazda RX-7 FD.

 **The Flag:** a white handkerchief, procured from Mibuchi’s pocket, because he apparently carries them around.

 **The Route:** five kilometers of quiet, winding forest road off the Chuo Line, almost eight hundred meters above sea level, barely wide enough for two cars, side-by-side.

 **The Race:** a pass battle – the _Grip Gambler_.

 **The Rules:** first to the finish line – wins.

Riko stands next to Junpei, watching as Satsuki folds herself into the Supra and pulls the door shut. The engine comes on with a shuddering rumble – quiet at first, growing louder, settling into a scream as Satsuki power brakes, wheels spinning in place.

“Theatrical, isn’t she,” Kuroko says, quietly, from Riko’s other side. “I’m sure you find it overwhelming.”

On the road, Satsuki rolls her window down, holds her index and middle fingers out, shouting, “Wish me luck, Riko-chan!”

She sounds so enthusiastic Riko can’t help the small smile that curls up the corners of her lips, that prompts her to mouth _good luck_ and wave in encouragement. Satsuki’s answering grin is blinding, even through the window’s tinted glass. 

“She is,” Riko tells Kuroko, “but I think I’m getting used to it.”

Mibuchi drops the handkerchief.

The cars erupt from the starting line, Satsuki a hair’s breadth ahead of Aomine’s Mazda. The first turn – a tight hairpin loop – is thirty meters from the start. The Supra’s tires screech as Satsuki steers into a perfectly controlled drift –  tight, precise – Aomine hot on her heels.

The cars disappear around the bend.

“Come on,” Himuro says, “we’re not going to see anything standing here. Riko-san, would you like to ride with Kuroko and me?”

“Oh, I actually came here with,” Riko glances over at Junpei, “do you mind, Junpei?”

“Junpei-chan will take _me_ , won’t you, Junpei-chan,” Mibuchi interjects, nudging Junpei’s shoulder with his own.

Junpei bristles, a little, probably at the familiarity of the address, which has quickly evolved from first-and-last-name + overly-informal honorific to first-name + overly-informal honorific. “Uh – sure,” he says, deliberately casual, and walks Mibuchi to the Subaru.

“Well, that was interesting,” Himuro says, and holds the Dodge’s passenger door open for Riko. “Riko-san?”

 

***

 

“It was a _tie_ ,” Satsuki says, leans against the hood of her car, legs crossed at the ankles, hooking her thumbs through the belt-loops on her skinny jeans. Her hair, coming out of its ponytail, is wind-swept, as if she’d driven with her windows down.

“If it makes you feel better,” Aomine yawns, a pointed gesture, “then sure, it was a tie.”

“Ah, fuck you, Dai-chan,” Satsuki smiles around the expletive, eyes sharp. “Whatever, I’ll win next time.”

“Thought you said it was a tie,” Aomine says, and exhales, abruptly, as Satsuki drives a punch into his shoulder. “Ouch, that _hurt_.”

“Good, you deserved it,” Satsuki says, emphatic, and turns her head to look at Riko, eyes crinkling, rueful.  “Is it worth it, to ask what you thought, Riko-chan?”

Riko lifts her eyebrows, nonchalant. “About what,” she says, ignoring the feeling of her stomach dropping to her feet, as if she’d been the one driving, “you losing?”

Satsuki runs a hand through her hair, rumpling it further. “So mean, Riko-chan,” she says, “I take back what I said about your filter.”

Riko thinks about the way Satsuki maneuvered her car around the _touge’s_ s-bends: with expert efficiency, not a movement wasted. _I’m a safe driver_ , she’d said, and Riko has to admit she isn’t, at the very least, a reckless one.

There is no denying how good she is, either.

“I’ll think about it,” she says, and Satsuki looks up, surprised. “About your engine,” Riko clarifies. “I’ll think about it.”

 

***

 

            **240\. May**

 _I’m busy all week till Friday_ , Satsuki had said, after the race, and so Riko is granted a week-long reprieve from her dazzling smile and nerve-wracking laughter. She uses the time to start work on the Lancer: takes out the back seats, puts in the order for the roof and hood, begins tweaking the suspension.

On the surface, nothing is different. Riko shows up for work, benevolently tolerates her employees, fondly berates Teppei –

But there’s an undercurrent, Riko thinks, of edginess-excitement-anticipation, just underneath that surface, coloring her activities, like a silver thread glistening in between a mass of duller ones. It’s a funny feeling.

Riko pretends she doesn’t know why –

Friday afternoon, when Riko is in the office, figuring out the week’s expenses – she’s always done their accounting herself –  Teppei asks, “what’s that put a spring in _your_ step?”, grinning, like he knows exactly what. 

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to,” Riko says, less bitingly than she otherwise would. Teppei ruffles her hair, and goes to pick up his jacket and sign out. He is leaving early – there’s a used car auction in Osaka he and Shun are going to check out over the weekend. Riko isn’t sure it qualifies as downtime, considering he is going to be working, but Teppei seems adamant to think of the weekend as a mini-vacation, and Riko doesn’t have the heart to argue with him.

Knowing Shun, Teppei will probably end up unwinding at some point, anyway.

“Have fun!” Riko calls after him as he is leaving.

He pauses in the doorway, takes the time to wink and shout, “you too!” back at her.

Riko shakes her head in fond exasperation, laughing, and goes back to her spreadsheets.

She is still smiling when her cellphone vibrates, in her pocket.

 **From: <unknown number>, 4:30 PM**  
Sorry, Riko-chan, but I’m going to be late.  
 I’ll drop by around – eight o’ clock, maybe?

Riko blinks, re-reads the message.

 **To: <unknown number>, 4:32 PM**  
How did you get this number?

Her phone vibrates, again, just as she is slipping it back into her pocket.

 **From: <unknown number>, 4:33 PM**  
I have _connections_ , remember?  
Please don’t save my number under “Momoi-san” in your address book.

Riko finds she is grinning at her screen.

 **To: Momoi-san, 4:35 PM**  
How would you know, anyway.

Satsuki shows up at half past eight, just as Riko is pocketing her keys after locking up. She is driving a white Civic today – probably her “daily-use car”, and she steps out – nude-heel first – onto the sidewalk with an apologetic set to her shoulders.

Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy half-updo and she is wearing a grey pantsuit with the jacket unbuttoned and the trouser-hems cropped.

“Surprise, surprise,” Riko says, before she’s quite thought about it, “and here I thought you were going to stand me up.”

Satsuki’s eyes widen. Riko revels in her – temporary, as it turns out; Satsuki recovers quickly –  victory.

“Pretty girl like you?” Satsuki makes a show of fitting her hands into the pockets of her sharply-pressed trousers and standing with her feet shoulder-width apart. “I’d never forgive myself.”

Riko feels her face flame. “What happened to _your_ filter,” she says, rummaging in her pockets for the garage key and fitting it into the lock, “or – wait, we’ve established you don’t have one.”

“Wait,” Satsuki says, as Riko is about to turn the key, “you don’t have to open shop again.”

“Oh?” Riko stills. “I thought you wanted to talk engines.”

“We don’t have to be in the garage to talk engines, you know,” Satsuki says. “There are – other places, where people can sit and have conversations, over food, for example.”

And she gives Riko a wary, expectant sort of look.

“Are you,” Riko says, slowly, after several moments of silence, during which Satsuki’s nose and cheeks begin turning a dull red, “asking me out.”

Satsuki bites her lip, still endearingly red. Riko is proud her own face is cool.

“You don’t have to think of it that way if you don’t want to. I could just be starving, and selfish.”

Riko looks down at her well-worn jeans and giant t-shirt. It is one of Teppei’s old shirts, if she is not mistaken. It sits at her shoulders the way his shirts would, if she wore them.

“Okay,” Riko says, removing the key from the door and walking over to Satsuki’s Civic, “you have two options.”

Satsuki nods. “Well, shoot.”

“Option one,” Riko holds up a finger, for emphasis, “you take me home first, so I can at least wear a shirt that actually fits me. I like the jeans, though, don’t judge.”

“I wouldn’t,” Satsuki says, which sounds ridiculous, considering how _she_ is dressed.

“Option two,” Riko continues, “I unlock the garage, and we call in takeout.”

“Tempting,” Satsuki says, “but if I get to see you dressed up _and_ take you to some place nice – well.”

“I thought you said I didn’t have to think of it as you taking me out,” Riko says, as she slides into the passenger seat. “You’re making it hard for me to believe you.”

Satsuki pulls her door shut. “Well,” she says, starting up the engine. She puts the car in reverse, looks over her shoulder. Her hand is loose around the steering wheel. “I’m a straight-forward kind of girl. Besides – ” She lifts her eyebrows, giving Riko one of her bright, open-faced grins, “I don’t think you mind.”

 

***

 

In true Satsuki-fashion, Satsuki insists on following Riko up to her apartment. “Waiting in the car is boring,” she says, and proceeds to invite herself into Riko’s bedroom, too, throwing open Riko’s closet and rummaging through her clothes.

“Riko-chan,” she says, despairingly, a minute into this pursuit, “you only ever dress like a boy, don’t you.”

“Boys’ clothes are comfortable,” Riko grumbles. She thinks she might be less upset at the blatant invasion of her privacy and more at herself, for not being as upset as she probably should be.

“ _Hopeless_ ,” Satsuki pulls out a pair of black skinny jeans and a maroon-red button-down, tosses them onto the bed, and goes back to rifling through the rest of Riko’s clothing, “ah,” she says, unhooking another hanger, “of _course_ you’d have vests. _Of course_.”

The vest – also black, with gold buttons down the front –  joins the jeans and shirt on Riko’s mattress. “There,” Satsuki says, “you can go get changed, now.”

Riko sighs. “You’re a tyrant,” she says, “a very pretty tyrant,” and she gathers up the clothes and retreats into the bathroom before Satsuki can reply, calling “Don’t look through my stuff!” as she closes the door.

In the bathroom, Riko tosses her t-shirt and jeans into the laundry hamper before stepping into the shower, scrubbing the grease off her skin. The grease – thick, black, sticky – is like ink out of a fountain pen, managing to stain clothes/skin/hair despite every precaution otherwise. 

As she her slides her arms into the sleeves of shirt Satsuki had picked out for her – it’s a men’s shirt; almost all her shirts are altered men’s shirts – her fingers fumble over the buttons. She straightens the collar, rolls her shirtsleeves up to the elbows and dampens her fingers, cutting a deep side-part into her fringe.

Junpei’s done a great job with her crew-cut, Riko thinks as she finger-combs the fringe away from her face and touches up her eyeliner. She should thank him, again, for the free consultation and all the subsequent free follow-ups, let him know she isn’t abusing his goodwill.

Her face is pale in the mirror: pale with big dark eyes and a pinched look about her nose and mouth – but at least her hair is ~~interesting~~ nice. Riko sighs, turns the lights off, and steps out into the hall, careful to leave the bathroom slippers inside the bathroom.

Satsuki has made herself at home in the living room. She is sitting on one of Riko’s sofas, a magazine open over one knee, and is flicking through the channels on the TV set. “Wow,” she says, looking up as Riko enters, “I can see why you like boys’ clothes so much.”

“I do own dresses, you know,” Riko grouches.

Satsuki laughs. “Some other time, then,” she says, and stands up, brushing down the front of her pantsuit. “Let’s go, before I faint, or something. I don’t think taking someone to the ER is a good first date spot.”

“I don’t think emergency rooms are _ever_ good date spots,” Riko says, reaching for her sneakers – and then, she changes her mind, retrieving a pair of black open-toed heels from the shoe cabinet instead. “Before you say anything,” she tells Satsuki, who has a sparkle in her eye, “I’m wearing these because you’re already too tall, as it is.”

There is also the fact that Riko actually likes heels, on the rare occasions she wears them. She likes pairing them with leggings or skinny jeans, likes the way they bring out her ankles, and the spaces between her toes. Everyone likes _something_ about themselves, Riko thinks. It’s important to celebrate it.

Satsuki links her arm with Riko’s, hand resting along Riko’s forearm. Her perfume – familiar, now, in the space of the few weeks they’ve known each other – fills Riko’s nose, heady, warm, captivating.

“I think,” she says, brightly, voice light and airy, “they’re perfect.”

 

***

 

It occurs to Riko, on the drive back to her apartment, to say,

“We never talked about engines,”

Because, in fact, they hadn’t. They’d talked about the restaurant - a curious little place in the heart of Ebisu (owned by another one of Satsuki’s eclectic friends, one Murasakibara Atsushi, who, in spite of his “army of underlings” is the sort of hands-on restaurateur does the cooking himself), the food (ravioli, the night’s special; the theme was Italian), Satsuki’s new album (“Ahh, Riko-chan that sounds like a great idea for an MV!”), Riko’s crewcut (“Wow, Hyuuga-san cut it? It looks amazing – ”), and even Riko’s own long-forgotten street-racing dreams (“I wanted to, sure, at one point, but I got caught up with running the garage.”), but no mention had been made of the Lancer, how its modifications were coming along, or even Satsuki’s eventual plans for it.

She’d enjoyed herself – Satsuki is, after all, a charming, magnetic conversation partner – but Riko can’t shake the feeling that there is something she is missing.

The streetlight at the intersection turns red; Satsuki steps on the brake, putting the car into neutral. She drives in a much more relaxed manner than Riko would’ve thought, considering how _exact_ and _meticulous_ her style had appeared, from a viewer’s perspective. She keeps her right hand on the gearstick, the fingers of the other curved, loosely, around the lower half of the steering-wheel.

She blinks, stifles a yawn. “You’re right,” she says, “we didn’t.”

Riko pulls at her seatbelt, which suddenly seems too tight. “Okay.”

“You know, Riko-chan,” Satsuki reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror, “I know why you don’t – or is it didn’t? – want to tune my car.”

Riko blinks. “You – do?”

“Mmhm.” The light turns green. Satsuki shifts gears. “Kagamin told me I might have to work at bringing you around. –though, I gotta say – it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”

“Oh, sorry for not providing the challenge you were expecting,” Riko says, sourly.

“Don’t be,” Satsuki drags her free hand through her hair, “honestly, it was a relief, you know? But – yeah, Kagamin told me about Kiyoshi-san’s accident. You’d changed out the brake system, hadn’t you?”

Riko sits in silence, for a moment, fiddling with the seatbelt strap. It feels weird, to hear Satsuki discussing Teppei’s – accident – so _calmly_ , because, after all, it was an event Satsuki did not bear witness to, that did not impact her. Satsuki does not know what sound the car made as it collided with the guard rail. She didn’t hear the tires screech, or smell the smell of burning rubber and oil. She hadn’t been there when Riko and Junpei pulled Teppei out of the driver’s seat, or listened to Alex screaming as the window jammed shut with her hair caught between the glass and the frame.

(It had been a close call, the ER doctor said, later; could have been worse. Teppei spent six months in and out of rehab, Junpei fixed (what was left of) Alex’s hair as best as he could. Riko had him cut hers short.)

“Yeah,” Riko says, finally, voice strange to her own ears, “I did. There was – probably something I’d overlooked; my fault he crashed.”

“That’s not how Kagamin told it,” Satsuki says, “the way he told it made it sound like it was no-one’s fault. A matter of circumstance.”

“Circumstance,” Riko says, hollow, “that’s a pretty way of putting it.”

“I won’t pretend to speak for Alex or Kiyoshi-san,” Satsuki flicks the indicator on, steering the car into a turn, “but I don’t think anybody would blame you, Riko-chan. You know – Kagamin is still racing, and Alex is still teaching. She’s taken on another student, recently. There’s gonna another octane-burning, rule-breaking speed-demon ripping through LA pretty soon, I’m sure.”

Another red light – Satsuki drums her fingers on the steering wheel.

“Besides,” she looks over at Riko, smiling, “that Ferrari you built Kagamin? It’s Magnificent.” She says it just like that: Magnificent, with a capital M.  “He let me drive it, once – I had to give up an arm and a leg, obviously – oh, I’m _joking_ ; don’t look like that – and it was such a _rush_.”

“Thanks,” Riko folds her arms across her chest. Her head knocks back against the headrest as the car moves forward.

“You know what I think,” Satsuki says, turning into Riko’s street, and continues before Riko can reply, “I think you enjoy it too much to quit, Riko-chan. That’s why I didn’t have to convince you to help me out, because _you_ convinced yourself.”

She pulls up outside Riko’s building, the Civic’s tires crunching over gravel as the car rolls to a stop. Satsuki leans over the steering wheel, turning to watch as Riko unbuckles her seatbelt, lets it snap into place.

“I hope you had a good time,” she says, eyes heavy-lidded.

“You’re – not wrong,” Riko tells her. “I did convince myself.”

There is a moment of quiet, and then, “Forgiveness is a process, Riko-chan,” Satsuki says.

Riko hovers, a little awkward, her hand on the Civic’s door. Oh, fuck it, she thinks, and ducks back in. “Do you want to come up? I can – ”

Satsuki smiles, drops her a wink. “Thanks, Riko-chan, but some other time, maybe. I don’t want to push my luck, or you’ll get tired of me.”

“Well, it was worth a shot,”Riko says, “I had a great time. Thanks, Satsuki. I’ll see you around.”

She pushes the door shut and stands back, on the sidewalk, till Satsuki and the Civic disappear around the corner.

Upstairs, Riko writes herself a note: _turbocharger vs swap: options, pros + cons._

There is a message in her cellphone inbox when she switches it back on.

 **From: Junpei-chan, 9:30 PM**  
So, how’d your date go?

Riko smiles.

 **To: Junpei-chan, 11:00 PM**  
How’d you know I had one?

 **From: Junpei-chan, 11:05 PM**  
Contrary to popular belief, I’m not blind, Riko.  
Just without my glasses. ;)

 

***

 

“Nah, don’t swap it out,” Satsuki says, her voice muffled, as if coming from a great distance, probably due to poor reception,  “I mean, obviously it’s the best way to get the engine you want but if I wanted to drive a Ferrari I’d buy a Ferrari.”

“Point taken,” Riko slots her phone between her ear and shoulder, flipping through her notepad, “okay, so, to recap: we’re finished tweaking the suspension and upgrading your ECU. I’ve also taken out the backseats and fitted lighter tires. We’re still waiting on the pieces for the hood and roof, and the plan – so far –  is to put in a turbocharger and upgrade the exhaust system. Have I missed anything?”

“No, you’re good,” Satsuki says, “sounds perfect.”

“The parts I ordered should come in sometime next week,” Riko sets the notepad down, sticks her pencil behind her ear, “you’re sure you’re not in a hurry.”

“Deadline’s end of June. You’ve got plenty of time,” Satsuki says, “my manager’s throwing a hissy fit, so I’ve got to _go work_ now. But you can reach me through text anytime if you’ve got any questions.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

“Oh, and Riko-chan – ”

“Yes?”

“How would you like,” Satsuki begins, and then calls,  “– yes, alright, Sakurai-kun, I’m coming, please don’t _cry_ – Riko-chan, I’ll send you a text, sorry,” and she hangs up.

Unsurprisingly, the message comes almost immediately.

 **From: Momoi-san, 12:30 PM**  
I was going to invite you to spectate another race on Friday – Dai-chan and I are having a rematch!!  
I’m totally going to beat him, this time, especially if you’re there cheering me on ;)

P.S. it’s Satsuki, or Satsuki-chan, please stop with the Momoi-san nonsense or I will never let you pay when we go out

 

 **To: Momoi-san, 12:34 PM**  
Sure.

P.S. you’re not very good at threats.

 

***

 

The Friday races, Riko learns, are a regular thing, like her Sunday dinners with her father, and the garage’s bi-weekly group lunch date at Maji Burger. Satsuki and Aomine keep score on a dry-erase board that is usually stashed in the trunk of Aomine’s Mazda. The latest tally, Satsuki says, has brought her average up to four out of every ten.

The Friday races are a regular thing for Satsuki, and they become one for Riko, too. Sometimes Satsuki will pick her up from the garage. Sometimes Riko will bully Junpei or Teppei into driving her, instead. There is even a memorable weekend when Shun takes her – on the back of his FZ1 –  because Teppei is at his grandparents’ and Junpei is attending a late class (he is working on obtaining a Master’s degree in Japanese History, for reasons beyond Riko’s comprehension).

There aren’t always as many people as there had been the first race, but Satsuki and Aomine usually aren’t alone, either, so there is always someone to accompany Riko in watching the race from the sidelines. Over the next couple Fridays, Riko meets several more of Satsuki’s “friends” – surgeon Midorima Shintarou, lawyer Imayoshi Shouichi, JBL legend Nijimura Shuuzou.

(Several mentions are made of the infamous ‘Ryou’, mainly by a disgruntled Aomine, but Riko has yet to figure out who that is.)

One Friday in early June, Satsuki comes to pick up the Lancer, and they drive to a rest stop off the Shuto Expressway’s Bayshore Route – better known as The Wangan, in street-racing circles. Surprisingly, Aomine is already there; his car is parked in the lot in front of the rest stop’s convenience store. There is another car – a yellow-and-black LFA – standing by it, and, at first glance, both cars are empty.

Satsuki brings the Lancer to a stop on the Mazda’s other side. She steps out of her car – leaving the key in the ignition – and goes to rap her knuckles against the Mazda’s back door before pulling it open.

“Oh, excellent, just what I wanted to see,” she says, a world’s worth of sarcasm packed into her voice.

“Keep it down, Momocchi,” someone says from inside. The voice – a bright, jaunty tenor – sounds familiar, though Riko cannot place it, “he’s _asleep_.”

“You’re terrible, Ryou-chan,” Satsuki says. Her voice turns sly, “so, who won?”

“Mind out of the gutter, Momocchi,” the person named Ryou-chan says, in a long-suffering tone, “but if you _must_ know, I did. Wiped the floor with him – and yes, I _am_ talking about _racing_.”

“You tell yourself that,” Satsuki says cheerfully, “poor Dai-chan, he’s going to be beat twice in a row today. Definitely not his lucky day!”

“I can hear you, you know,” Aomine says, sitting up and dragging a hand across his face. “You sure know how to talk big, don’t you, Satsuki?”

Satsuki skips backward so that he can slide out. “You know I can back up the big talk, too, Dai-chan,” she says, grinning.

The other occupant of the car gets out from the opposite side, stretching his arms over his head. He is – like Aomine –  ridiculously – tall, blond, and, when he turns, Riko realizes why he’d sounded so familiar.

“Hey,” Kise Ryouta – model, actor, singer – says, “you must be Satsuki’s Riko-chan.” Like all of Satsuki’s friends – the ones Riko has met, at least – he is ridiculously pretty, possibly _the prettiest_ , with Mibuchi Reo being (probably) the most serious contender. He moves like an oil slick, all height and grace, like a racecar personified, or a supermodel on an international runway – which, of course, he is. 

“Satsuki,” Riko says, “where on earth did you find these people?”

“We went to school together, actually,” Satsuki says, treating the inquiry as a serious one. “Well – Dai-chan and I go even further back; our mothers used to joke we were joined at the hip.”

Aomine yawns, slinging an arm around Kise’s shoulders and leaning into him, “don’t you dare,” he interjects, warning.

“Oh, please,” Satsuki says, rolling her eyes, “you don’t need _me_ to embarrass you.”

The exchange reminds Riko so much of her own ~~snarking at~~ conversations with Junpei and Teppei that she has to stifle a laugh.

“Well, come on, Dai-chan,” Satsuki says, “I’m not going to win standing around here talking.”

 

***

 

Unlike the five-kilometers of winding mountain road that had been the setting for the _touge_ race, the track today is a four-hundred-meter straight stretch with no inclines and minimal traffic. Riko stands with her hands in her jeans pockets, watching Satsuki line the Lancer up at the starting point. In the Mazda’s shotgun seat, Kise buckles his seatbelt and reaches out to adjust the wing mirror on his side.

“Riko-chan,” Satsuki opens her own window, “are you sure you want to watch from the road? There’s no-one but you today.”

Her eyebrows are furrowed, and maybe Riko is reading too much into her expression, but she sounds like she is trying to coax Riko into changing her mind. _It’ll be boring, on your own_ , Satsuki’s expression says, _don’t you think?_

Next to them, Kise laughs out loud, prompting Aomine to elbow him in the ribs. “If I lose because of you and your stupid distracting face,” Aomine mock-growls.

“Please?” Satsuki says.

It seems to have become a tradition, Riko thinks, in the span of as short as two months: Satsuki says _please_ and Riko says _okay_. Kise isn’t the only distracting person around here. It’s that, or Riko is just weak.

“If I die, I will come back to haunt you,” Riko says, and proceeds to not-quite-stomp over to the passenger door.

“Don’t forget to buckle up!” Satsuki says, overly upbeat, and laughs at the halfhearted-glare Riko throws in her direction. The Lancer shudders as it inches forward, engine humming. This is the Lancer’s maiden race, its premiere showing, the test of how good a job Riko has done, which is currently a giant question-mark. After all, Satsuki hadn’t broken eighty kilometers-per-hour on the way here, though, theoretically, the Lancer is now – according to Riko’s calculations –  capable of three- _hundred_ -and-eighty.

 “You don’t have a starter today,” Riko observes.

“Mmhmm,” Satsuki reaches into her handbag, pulling out her cellphone, “it’s fine; we’ll manage. It’s a friendly race, no cause for ceremony.” She thumbs through to the stopwatch app, and holds it out. “Let’s see how much time you’ve shaved off our acceleration,” she says, grinning.

Riko takes the phone.

On her right, Kise leans out of the Mazda, Aomine a blurry figure on his other side. “Ready, Momocchi?” he calls, holding up three fingers.

“Ready when you are,” Satsuki calls back.

“Alright then, here goes: three,” Kise says, curling in a finger, and Riko hears the revving of two engines, tires spinning in place, “two,” another finger down; the Lancer screams, and Riko makes a mental note to switch out the exhaust pipe for a quieter one, “one – ”

The Lancer leaps forward, and Riko is thrown back against the seat as it accelerates, speedometer needle climbing steadily – twenty – forty – sixty – eighty – one hundred –

Riko stops the timer. “3.5 seconds,” she shouts over the sound of the engine and the wind, slightly breathless, because _wow_ , _she’d done it_.

“You did it,” Satsuki says, echoing Riko’s thoughts, “say – mind putting up your window? It’s really loud in here.”

The glass rolls into place with a quiet _snick_ , dampening the sounds - of the wind and the engine – throwing the cabin into (relative) silence. Riko can see the Mazda in the wing mirror, keeping pace. Without the roar of the wind, the interior of the car becomes an individual unit, separate from the outside world, carried effortlessly along by the engine –

Like being weightless, Riko thinks.

 Like this, it is easy to forget how fast they are going, save for the speedometer needle, currently hovering at two-hundred-and-ten, and still climbing.

“Wow,” Satsuki says, voice hushed, “you really, really did it.”

Fifty meters ahead, the signpost marking the race’s endpoint grows steadily closer. The Mazda’s headlights loom bright in the rearview mirror. Satsuki glances at Riko, face breaking into a grin.

“Let’s see how fast we can go, huh, Riko-chan?” she says, and steps on the accelerator.

 

***

 

They cross the signpost at three-sixty-kilometers-an-hour, three seconds ahead of Aomine’s Mazda. Satsuki brakes, smoothly, bringing the Lancer to a smooth stop –

–  and  she punches the air with her fist, crowing, “ _yes!_ ,” before turning her seat –

Later, Riko will be unable to pinpoint the _exact_ sequence of events that leads up to Satsuki’s mouth crushing against her own, arms wound tight around Riko’s shoulders. It – the moment – lasts only an instant –

– a long, heated instant, where Riko is hyperaware of all the places Satsuki is touching her – the push of her lips, the insistent press of her fingers –

– and then Satsuki pulls back, red in the dimly-lit cabin –

“I am so sorry,” she says, the words a rush, “that was – come on, I need to rub this into Dai-chan’s face,” and she pushes the door open, climbing out of the car and onto the street. Riko hears her call, “Dai-chan, you’re gonna have to retire - !”

Riko touches her fingers to her mouth, repressing a smile. Well, she thinks, was that wholly unexpected?

“So,” Satsuki is saying, when Riko gets out of the car, “I think this means I can definitely place at Tsukuba.”

Aomine says, “you’d better, for my sake, too,” in a voice like a martyred _shounen_ animanga hero, setting a hand over his heart.

“Ah, hush, Dai-chan,” Satsuki rolls her eyes, but Riko can tell she is pleased.

“Oh, it’s Satsuki’s Riko-chan,” Kise says, from where he is standing, leaning into Aomine’s shoulder, arms crossed. He grins at Riko, “that’s some impressive tuning you’ve done there. Say I come in for a consult – ”

“It’s bad taste to discuss business in the middle of the street,” Aomine mutters. Riko wonders if she is imagining the grouchy irritability in his voice.

Kise gives him a half-smile. “There are worse places, Aominecchi,” he says.

“Wouldn’t you know,” Aomine narrows his eyes.

“Alright, that’s enough out of you two,” Satsuki says loudly, “get a room, or something,” and she loops her hand into the crook of Riko’s arm, dragging her back to the Lancer. “Ryou-chan, if you’re serious about consultations text me and I’ll give you Riko-chan’s garage’s address. I’m going to take Riko-chan home, now –  see you guys later!”

Back in the car, Satsuki fits her key into the ignition. She is biting her lip, and, unless Riko is seeing things, there is a little tremor in her hand.

“Coming down from your adrenaline high?” she asks, as Satsuki is buckling her seatbelt.

“What – ? Oh, yes, I suppose,” Satsuki says. She blinks, focuses on the rearview mirror as she puts the car in reverse, fingers flat against the steering wheel. She has pretty hands, Riko thinks, long, slender fingers, meticulously-cared for nails.

Satsuki is the sort of person could charm the gold off a leprechaun. Riko is still amazed she gives her the time of day, much less –

“What was that about Tsukuba?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she sounds relieved, Riko thinks, “they’re holding an amateur free-for-all – it’s supposed to tie in with the summer festival. It’s what I bought the car for,” and she pats the Lancer’s dashboard, fondly, like it is a cherished pet.

“An amateur free-for-all,” Riko repeats.

“Mmhmm,” Satsuki steps on the clutch, changes gears. “A whole day of circuit races open to the public. Sounds awesome, doesn’t it? There’s an entry fee, but other than that the only rule is you gotta provide your own car.”

“When you say free-for- _all_ ,” Riko says, slowly.

Satsuki laughs, meeting her eyes. She averts them, quickly, and continues, hurriedly, “you know what it’s like, Riko-chan – they aren’t going to print _no girls allowed_ on their posters. It’s a matter of principle.”

“So you’re just going to show up,” Riko says.

Satsuki nods. “Yup. That is the plan.”

“What if you’re denied entry?”

Satsuki shrugs. “Then I’m going to go to my manager and have him arrange an interview with Option Magazine.”

“You’re going to arrange an interview either way, aren’t you,” Riko muses.

Satsuki grins, sharp. “How many women do you see when you’re out buying auto parts, Riko-chan?”

“You’re going to make a production out of this.”

“No,” Satsuki shakes her head, “just an interview. I’m not going to say anything illegal, Riko-chan – don’t worry.”

“I think _you_ need to worry more,” Riko mutters, and the car descends into silence. It is cold, in the car, Riko thinks, curling her fingers into her palms. It is a futile gesture, so she reaches for the thermostat, just as Satsuki says,

“Are you cold, Riko-chan,” and reaches for it, too, so that their fingers collide awkwardly against the dashboard. Satsuki pulls her hand back. “Whoops, my mistake,” she says, too loud.

Riko swallows.

“Satsuki,” she says, her voice gravelly.

For a moment, she thinks Satsuki will ignore her, and then Satsuki says, “yes, Riko-chan?”

“I’m rather upset it took you so long to kiss me at all, you know. You’re not very good at taking hints, are you.”

Riko keeps her voice nonchalant, as if she is discussing the weather, or the engine’s torque, perhaps.

Satsuki’s eyes widen. She laughs. “Hints,” she says, incredulous, “Riko-chan, what on _earth_ are you talking about?”

“Mm, it is hard to maintain a balance between ‘I am a professional’ and ‘wow, this girl is hot,’” Riko reflects, “I’m not very good at it, I’m afraid.”

“No,” Satsuki says, looking over at her, expression wry, “you’re not.”

“I don’t suppose,” Riko continues, choosing her words carefully, “if I invited you up _this_ time you’d take me up on the offer?”

It isn’t as though Satsuki hasn’t been in her apartment. She has – more than once, but usually to pick Riko up, and never after she’s brought her back. She doesn’t know if the phrase “inviting you up,” covers all the nuances of what she wants to express – but Riko is fairly sure Satsuki will understand.

Satsuki’s throat bobs. “I thought you’d rescinded that offer,” she says, “only took you two months, huh, Riko-chan?”

 

***

 

In the morning, when Riko wakes up, Satsuki is still there, curled up on her side with a hand tucked under her cheek. Sunlight plays across her face and hair in stripes of bright and dark, filtered through the shutters over Riko’s windows.

She is beautiful, Riko thinks, even with the vestiges of last night’s mascara smudging her cheeks, and the strands of hair stuck with – probably drool, or sweat, or both – to her face.

 Riko cards her fingers through Satsuki’s hair, the heel of her hand resting against the curve of Satsuki’s cheek.

Satsuki’s mouth quirks, in sleep, eyebrows evening out. She murmurs something –  Riko catches _oh, for heaven’s sake_ and _Riko-chan_ – and drapes an arm over Riko’s waist, her breath hot against Riko’s throat and collarbone.

***

“You’ve been looking happier, lately,” her father comments that Sunday over dinner – they are having steak and mashed potatoes, which Riko learned to cook because it is simple but fancy, “has something happened that you’re not telling me about?”

 

***

 

            **400\. July**

The morning of the race at Tsukuba, Satsuki drops into the garage, unannounced. It is a Tuesday – the middle of the week – and Tanabata or no Tanabata, business proceeds as usual. In fact, Riko thinks there might be _more_ work to do; the summer brings with it vacation and free time and road-trips, all of which mean maintenance –

Not that Riko is complaining. Wanting to work with cars, is, after all, the reason she and Teppei opened the garage in the first place. They’ve been in business for almost five years, now, and have a more-or-less-steady client base, thanks in part to an excellent work ethic, but also Izuki Shun’s equally excellent networking abilities.

Sometimes, Riko wonders just how much she has to thank her friends for.

It is ten o’ clock – practically half-way through the day – and Riko is lying under a customer’s off-roader when she hears the very familiar sound of a car coming to a stop outside the front of the garage.

Riko waits a moment, and then she calls, “Teppei, will you take care of that?”

There is no answer. Riko sighs – he probably isn’t in the garage proper, and can’t hear her.

“Geez, Riko-chan, you make it sound like I’m a chore you’re offloading to someone else,” Satsuki’s disembodied voice says.

Riko tightens the last bolt, slides out from under the car. “Satsuki,” she says, to the upside-down, yellow-sundress-wearing figure leaning over her. She tries – and fails –  to sound serious, and disapproving, “what are you doing here?”

“I love you too, Riko-chan,” Satsuki says, the words suffused with warmth, and Riko tries to ignore the way her stomach flutters at the words – which were probably a joke, anyway.

“Seriously, though,” Riko says, standing, “what are you doing? Don’t you have a race?”

“I’ve already been to sign-in,” Satsuki says, “the qualifiers for modified sports cars aren’t till two;  I’ve got time.”

Riko wipes her hands, removes her safety glasses. “Okay,” she says, “still waiting for you to get to the point.”

“Ahh, you’re so _blunt_ , Riko-chan,” Satsuki mock-whines, “I came by to say hi, okay? And: please wish me luck, and also, is there a chance you’d be able to come watch? The time trials are in the afternoon but the actual mod-sports cars race is the last event, and I thought – maybe, if you were off by then – ”

She sounds like a train that has run away with itself. Riko is amazed she can still make sense of the words.

“What time?”

“Eh, about nine, according to the program,” Satsuki says, fiddling with the strap on her yellow sundress. Now that Riko is no longer looking at it upside-down, she can see the little white daisies scattered over the skirt, and the brown satin sash securing it at the waist.

“Planning to make a statement?” she asks, nodding at the dress.

“Is that a twisted way of saying I look good, Riko-chan?” Satsuki asks, grinning, deliberately missing the point.

Riko rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she says, “you don’t need _me_ to tell you you look good.”

Satsuki’s grin turns sly. “Well, then,” she says, “yes, I am, as you put it, _making a statement_. Will you come watch?”

“If I’m finished work, then, yes,” Riko nods, and holds up a hand, “don’t,” she says, “hug me – you’ll get grease on that dress.”

“Riko-chan, you are adorable,” Satsuki says, and leans in to press a kiss against Riko’s cheek, “well, I’ll get out of your hair, then – _for now_ ,” and she drops Riko a dramatic wink.

“Who’s adorable,” Riko shouts after her, once she has recovered, too late; Satsuki laughs and waves.

“If you’re asking me,” Teppei says, as he is passing by – toolbox in one hand, grease rag in the other –  long after Riko needs him, of course, “then obviously, you are, Riko-chan.”

 

***

 

 **From: Satsuki-chan (don’t change it back, Riko-chan), 3:45 PM**  
RIKO-CHAN _(_   _ﾉ_ _◕_ _ヮ_ _◕_   _)_   _ﾉ_   _*:_   _・_ _ﾟ_  
I QUALIFIED _(_   _ﾉ_ _◕_ _ヮ_ _◕_   _)_   _ﾉ_   _*:_   _・_ _ﾟ_ _(_   _ﾉ_ _◕_ _ヮ_ _◕_   _)_   _ﾉ_   _*:_   _・_ _ﾟ_  
RACE IS AT NINE-FIFTEEN _( ´_ _▽_   _` )_   _ﾉ_

**To: Satsuki-chan (don’t change it back, Riko-chan), 3:55 PM**  
Congratulations!  
There’s a lot going on here, but I’ll try my best to make it.

 

***

 

Riko almost makes it to the race in time. Almost, but not quite, because, as she is locking up – it is a quarter to seven, and Riko figures she has enough time to go home, shower, and then make it to the Tsukuba circuit – a black Mercedes pulls up in front of the garage, and a middle-aged man with dark hair – speckled with gray along his temples – steps out.

“Shirogane-sensei,” Riko says, internally groaning. Had he been any other customer, she could have said _we’re closed, please come again tomorrow_ , but this is Shirogane Eiji, one of her father’s oldest friends, and so Riko is obligated to nod politely and offer to unlock the garage.

She wishes Teppei were here – or Koganei, or even, at this point, Furihata – but she’d (benevolently) given everyone the afternoon off, in the name of Tanabata. Riko sighs, and decides to rethink charitable gestures, in the future.

“I believe it is brake trouble,” Shirogane-sensei says, “it is probably a minor problem, but safety is paramount on the road, as you are well aware, Riko-kun.”

“Would you like to leave your car here, sensei,” Riko begins to ask, hoping he says _yes; I will take the train home_ , or something to that effect.

“I would prefer if you took a look at it now,” Shirogane-sensei says, dashing that dream on the road. It isn’t unexpected; Shirogane-sensei is one of those people who seem to believe the world is subject to their every whim.

“Of course,” Riko says, smoothly, and goes to retrieve her equipment.

It is an infuriatingly minor problem – the brake pads need replacing, that is all – an incredibly simple (though time-consuming) procedure, that does not require any special tools or know-how –

This is a paid job, Riko reminds herself, pulls on her gloves, and jacks the car.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to stick around,” Teppei had asked, before he clocked out, and Riko had told him, “no, of course not,” like an idiot. She can’t call him now; that would be terribly inconsiderate of her. Teppei works really hard – he deserves a break.

“Sensei,” Riko says, “there are chairs and a coffee maker in the break room, if you’d like to make yourself comfortable. This is going to take a while.”

An hour, at least, thirty minutes each for either side. Riko grasps her wrench, bites her lip.

Let’s see, she thinks, if I can’t do it in forty-five.

 

***

 

She finishes up by seven-twenty, waits for Shirogane-sensei to test-drive the car around the block, and smiles in response to his not-thanks (“I do believe this was a simple matter, Riko-kun; it should not have taken so long.”) – and then she goes back inside to clean up.

It is ten-past-eight when Riko gets onto the train, breathless and already uncomfortably warm, despite her shower and shorts. I’m sorry, she texts Satsuki, I’m going to be late.

There is no reply, which Riko finds odd – but Satsuki is probably busy, or away from her phone –

Or maybe, the quiet, mean voice in Riko’s head mutters, she doesn’t think you’re coming.

It is, after all, eight-fifteen, and Riko has to change trains in another two stops. She isn’t going to make it in time to watch the race; it’s impossible. Riko isn’t Superman. She doesn’t have a giant inflatable robot that can fly her places, either (though Teppei would probably make a good substitute).

She should just get off at the next stop, take a train home, apologize to Satsuki – it was out of my hands, I’m sorry –

Riko sighs, sets her head against the seat’s backrest, closes her hands on her (bare) knees. She is sandwiched, uncomfortably, between a middle-aged lady on one side and a dozing salary-man on the other. The corner of his briefcase digs, uncomfortably, into the side of Riko’s leg. The window panes are pitch black, glare from the overhead lights reflecting off the glass. Riko pulls her phone from her pocket, grips it tight.

Come on, she thinks, come on, come on.

 

***

 

The race is over when Riko gets to Tsukuba. There is a crowd of spectators milling in and around the track and stands, and there is a lot of energy in the air – but it is an indolent sort of energy, the kind after a rush, not during or before. The hands on Riko’s wrist watch point to ten-fifteen. It had obviously been a short race.

She scans the crowd for Satsuki – or the Lancer, and finds neither. Her cellphone is silent – her earlier text has gone unanswered, and Riko feels ridiculous, self-conscious, as she sends another one, keying the message in while she makes her way through the throng of bodies. On her third sweep of the stands, Riko sees a familiar tall, dark-skinned man and feels the heavy knot of apprehension ease, a little. He is not alone; Kise’s gold hair seems iridescent in the fluorescent white emanating from the lampposts set around the stands.

“Where’s Satsuki,” Riko breathes, when she reaches them, the words tumbling out before she’s thought.

Up close, there is a worried little crinkle between Aomine’s eyebrows, and Kise’s mouth is in a tight, straight line.

“We don’t know,” Aomine says, brusque, “haven’t seen her since the results were announced. We’ve been looking.”

Riko finds she doesn’t care what the results were, whether Satsuki had come in first or last, whether the Lancer had performed to expectation. “She isn’t answering her text messages,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady.

“We should split up,” Kise says, placing a hand on Aomine’s arm, “it’s alright, Aominecchi, Riko-chan, we’ll find her. Look, Riko-chan – we’ll exchange cell numbers, keep in touch while we’re looking, okay?”

 

***

 

It is the car Riko sees first: mint-green paintjob faintly luminous in the half-dark, visible even from the distance, and the lack of proper illumination by the pits. It is quieter, here, farther from the rowdy chaos of the spectator crowds, and at first, everything looks okay –

The hand gripping Riko’s cellphone is suddenly slick around the phone’s cover.

 As she draws nearer, little details start clicking into place: crumpled front spoiler, dented fender, crack in the windshield like a bruise, fault-lines radiating from a point of impact, and the world seems to fall away, till it is just Riko and the Lancer trapped in white-space.

It looks as though it rammed headfirst into a wall, and lost, the strange, detached voice in Riko’s mind observes – all that work; what a fucking shame –

– but – not hard to fix, the voice in Riko’s mind says, abstractedly, not hard to fix at all –

– some accident, the voice murmurs, louder, this time more insistent –

She can feel her heart beating somewhere in her ears as she walks up to the car, dreamlike, reaches out to touch her hand against the hood –

Oh, the voice in Riko’s mind thinks, where is Satsuki, and her stomach plummets to her feet – and there is a loud slam, and the Lancer’s frame trembles, bringing Riko back to the present, where the silhouette of a man is holding a girl in a yellow sundress against the far side of the car, away from Riko –

“Fuck you,” the girl gasps, fingers digging into the hand at her neck.

“Can the attitude, bitch,” the man snarls, “or I’ll break both your fuckin’ arms, you hear?”

Dimly, Riko makes out three other tall, backlit figures, in a loose semi-circle at his back. Fear, like thick, black tar, pools in her stomach, freezing her in place, turning her knees to jelly, wrapping its fingers around her tongue and throat.

Satsuki hisses, a low, choked noise, and kicks out, foot catching her attacker in the stomach. He swears and drops her – she hits the side of the Lancer and slides to the ground, landing in a crumpled heap: pink hair, yellow dress.

 “Hey,” Riko shouts, forcing the word past the vise around her throat, “why don’t you fuck off?”

Through the fog in her mind, Riko can hear the sound of Satsuki’s breathing – rapid, shallow. One of Satsuki’s arms is lying at an awkward angle.

“Or what,” one of the men says –  in the way typical to small, smarmy men like him, the objective part of Riko’s mind notes, “what are you gonna do, huh? Get yourself fucked up – like this?” and he points to the Lancer, as if to say, _like what you see?_

There is a brief moment of silence, during which Riko contemplates the implications of what she has just heard: that this was no accident – this –

 _“I’m a really safe driver,”_ Satsuki’s voice echoes in Riko’s head, and, _“yes, I am, as you put it, making a statement.”_

“Oi,” someone calls from behind her, and Riko turns to find Aomine and Kise approaching. Aomine says, looking – deceptively, Riko assumes – calm, “what’s a bunch of scary fuckers like you doing,” he continues, like he is carrying on a conversation, “ganging up on one person?”

“I think they’re scared, Aominecchi,” Kise tells him, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes, “cowards travel in packs, don’t they?” He nods at Riko, as if to say, go on; we’ll take care of this.

Riko shoves past the man standing over Satsuki, dropping to her knees.

Satsuki’s face – cast in the Lancer’s shadow –  is twisted in pain: brows scrunched up, eyes squeezed shut. She has a scratch on one cheek, and her dress is covered in grass stains. She is breathing heavily, through her mouth, and flinches when Riko touches her face and lifts her head into her lap.

“Hey,” Riko says, proud her voice does not shake, “it’s just me.”

Satsuki shifts, tilting her head back to look Riko in the eye. “Hey, Riko-chan,” she says, her mouth twitching into a little smile, “guess what?”

She sounds delirious, Riko thinks, and feels tears prick at the backs of her eyes.

“What?” she asks.

“I won,” Satsuki says, still smiling, and lifts her hand to make a little v with her index and middle fingers.

“Did you,” Riko sets her hand against Satsuki’s scalp, tugs her fingers through her hair.

“Yeah,” there is laughter - rueful, guilty - brimming in Satsuki's eyes, “sorry I had to trash your hard work to do it. – and –  I think my arm is broken," she says, "wow, Riko-chan, it really," her voice cracks, eyes fluttering closed, "really hurts.”

Riko stays silent, unsure of what to say.

“But hey,” Satsuki continues, “you can fix us both up, I bet.”

“I fix cars, Satsuki,” Riko says, softly. “I’m not sure I can fix people.”

“Sure you can,” Satsuki says, and Riko wonders where Satsuki is finding the strength to smile, “I’ll be counting on it.”

 

***

 

**Epilogue: October**

October nights are what Riko likes to call _sweater weather_ after that one famous American song: not cold enough to wear jackets, not warm enough to take them off.

She sits on the hood of Himuro’s Dodge Viper, next to Alex, who is touching a lighter to the cigarette in her mouth. Her hair, a long bob, flutters in the wind. The cars line up on the road: Kagami’s Ferrari, Aomine’s Mazda, Kise’s LFA, Satsuki’s Lancer. The windshield is whole, unbroken, and the paintjob: a slick, vibrant green, sparks in the light from the streetlamps.

Riko can make out Satsuki’s silhouette behind the tinted glass: dainty profile, messy updo. There is a nugget of warmth lodged underneath Riko’s ribcage, like a fire, warming her from the inside out.

 

***

 

The screen door clatters as Satsuki – dressed in shorts and one of Teppei’s-now-Riko’s overlarge t-shirts –  pulls it back and steps, barefoot – long pale toes splaying as they take her weight, onto the terrace. She is holding a teacup in both hands, fingers wrapped all the way around its shape, and she sets it down on the little plastic table by Riko’s arm.

“What’re you doing out here,” she says, sinking into one of the deck chairs, folding her week’s worth of legs underneath her.

Riko pushes her reading glasses up her nose, grimacing at her notebook, resting in an open copy of _Option Magazine_ , where she has pasted in a diagram of Kise’s LFA and is attempting to brainstorm possible upgrades.

“Trying to work out a plan for your _friend’s_ car,” she says, with very little venom.

Satsuki laughs, leans her head against Riko’s shoulder. The wind ruffles their hair, washes Satsuki’s perfume over Riko’s entire face.

“Your friend, too,” Satsuki says, and turns her face into the curve of Riko’s neck, the cold tip of her nose pressing against Riko’s skin.

 

***

 

On Alex’s other side, Himuro is passionately debating the merits of American vs Japanese cars with Teppei. Himuro – when he feels like really talking – talks with his entire body, hands making sweeping, broad gestures to emphasize his points. Teppei, meanwhile, looks more amused than anything, leaning against the Viper’s side and nodding in acquiescence with Himuro’s points.

“In my line of work,” Teppei says, finally, in that infuriatingly calm way of his that only serves to rile his opponent further, “I’ve learned that a car’s real worth is in its potential,” and he catches Riko’s eye, grinning, before turning back –

“Some cars are like a blank canvas – those are the ones that interest me, as a mechanic, because of the infinite possibilities they provide.”

 

***

 

“Your face is cold,” Riko grumbles.

“All this extra business,” Satsuki says, pretending she hasn’t heard, “garage doing well, huh.”

“You’re not being subtle in the slightest,” Riko informs her, “but yes, it is, thank you. Your contribution has been invaluable.”

Satsuki smiles against her throat. Riko feels rather than sees it – the half-lidded crinkle of her eyes, the up-curve of her lips. It is ridiculously intimate, and makes Riko feel like she is going to melt into a puddle sitting in her chair. They’ll be scraping her gooey remains – frozen solid –  off the tilework come winter. The idea prompts Riko to say,

“You’re such a distraction,” only half-joking, “I’m never going to get anything done with you around.”

“Evidence,” Satsuki says blithely, “suggests the contrary,” and Riko can practically feel her smile turn smug.

“The evidence in question,” Riko retorts, flipping her notebook shut, “is highly biased.”

Satsuki giggles. “Better not make Ryou-chan’s car better than mine,” she says, deftly changing the subject, “I’m priority, okay?”

“It’s not the car, it’s the driver,” Riko says, absently, and flipping a page of the magazine and scanning the other side.

“That’s what people with no-good cars say to make themselves feel better,” Satsuki tells her. Riko does not reply, and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence.

“Say, Riko-chan,” Satsuki says finally, “thanks.”

Riko raises her eyebrows. “Whatever for?”

Satsuki smiles, her voice dropping to a breathy whisper, a butterfly kiss, perched on Riko’s skin. “Oh, you know. Everything.”

 

***

 

“Know who you’re cheering for?” Alex’s voice is raspy with cigarette smoke. Her eyes, behind her thick-framed glasses, are very green.

“Of course,” Riko says, stoutly, “and she’s gonna win.”

Alex tucks her hair behind her ear, nods, slowly.

“Good,” she says, her mouth quirking upward, around her cigarette, “that’s the spirit.”

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_-fin._


End file.
